During the recent pandemic, I decided it was time to finally sort through and make sense of 25+ years of stuffed away life that I fondly call keepsakes. I started by tackling exactly ONE tub on a Sunday afternoon in early April. Among a bunch of meaningless paper, I found letters I had written to my kids on their second and seventh birthdays. They were sweet and fun snapshots into their personalities at those ages, and I can’t explain why the other 20+ birthdays got skipped. I also found the flowered, fabric-covered journal that I wrote in sporadically from ages 15 to 19. I got sidetracked and read it in its entirety and then ripped it up page by page, sending it fluttering into a garbage bag filled with SpongeBob coloring pages and bad photos. Looking back, I see that this was a strange reaction, but for all of the stuff I wasn’t ready to let go of, I WAS ready to let go of my angsty teenage self.

I guess I want more fun, more intentional moments of doing things for the sheer enjoyment of them, more energetic moments of feeling carefree and happy, and more likelihood of getting to the end of my life and looking back fondly at a lifetime of fun memories. I’m kind of ashamed to admit that my capacity for fun diminished as I approached midlife. Having fun just got harder.